Profesional Psycho

Friday, March 03, 2006

J.R. Maxwell takes two steps out his front door. He pulls a slender Nat Sherman cigarette from the black and gold pack that it originally slumbered in. With a flick of an NYFD zippo lighter the cigarette is lit. The side streets are quieter on Wensdays. It's half way through the week, the world slows down, antisipating the friday to come. On Wensdays, J.R. Maxwell can hear the paperboys bike creak along with every pedal. The paper comes flying to meet his hand in a perfect motion. He tosses the cigarette into the drain in front of his steps and turns back into his well accomadated flat. The decor accents the two-thousand dollar per month rent. Mr. Maxwell will chuckle lightly at his bank statement that came yesterday, proving that finally he has outdone his father's fortune. Not that it shows by the tattered bathrobe garb that still hangs depleted around his shoulders.